Billionaire's Secret Baby - Claire Angel Page 0,2

just in case, you know where to find me.”

“Please give Chanel my best. Bet you can’t wait to see your new grandchild. Try not to whip the poor newborn into shape too soon,” I commented.

“Keep out of trouble, young man. I’ll see you in a week’s time. Oh, and thank you for the extra something you left me for my trip. You’re too good to me.”

“You’re worth it, Janet. Who else would keep me on my toes like you do?”

“Somewhere out there is a woman who’ll tame the cowboy in you, Christopher Carter, somewhere.”

And with that she hung up, and I went inside to dress for my busy day ahead. Growing up in Texas prepared me for all sorts of challenges. Texans were tough as nails, and it served me well in the cut throat world of finance. I hadn’t been to my hometown in far too long, so I planned to visit my folks in a few weeks’ time. The big open spaces, and the sounds and smells of our family’s ranch just outside Austin, was truly my happy place. Not to mention the foxy Texan fillies in cowboy boots and tight jeans.

But that would have to wait. The next two weeks were set aside for company bonding and enjoying the fruits of my labor. The five-star retreat was spectacular, and thanks to Platinum Events, things were shaping up to be a damn sight better than the year before. I had a feeling the week ahead would be one of new adventures.

I called Pierre, my business associate, from my car. He was overseeing a deal we were working on, and I wanted to touch base with him before my crazy day got away from me.

“Hi, Pierre. What you got for me? What’s the latest on Aubert?”

I could tell when Pierre was nervous. His voice kicked up an octave or two, and he spoke faster than usual.

“Uh, good morning, Chris. I was just about to call you. Aren’t you on your way to the resort yet?”

“What’s wrong, Pierre?” I asked, cutting off his attempts at small talk.

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just taking longer than I anticipated closing this bitch of a deal with Aubert. His legal team is throwing everything they can at us, including the kitchen sink, in an attempt to get more out of the deal than they deserve.”

“Come on, buddy. We haven’t come this far by being pussies, now have we? Call Bertram, he’ll scare the shit out of them. I want results. No excuses.”

“I’m on it, Chris. Will keep you posted.”

“Thanks. We’ll chat later. Oh, and don’t forget to swing by the resort later for a drink,” I said and ended the call.

Aubert was a perpetual pain in my ass, but the deal we were working on was too big to screw it up in the death throes. I wasn’t about to piss away a cool 50 million just because Aubert’s tight-ass legal team was throwing a shit fit. Getting what I wanted was my superpower.

Paris’ traffic was unpredictable, so I usually left for work early in the mornings. The city was truly gorgeous, but the smell left much to be desired. It was a combination of cigarettes and cigar smoke, car exhaust fumes, and urine. With the windows closed and the aircon blasting, I negotiated the twists and turns of the main arteries, trying my level best not to knock a cyclist off a bike. I remembered a hair raising, rogue cyclist incident once when I was in Holland for a conference—I thought for sure they’d lock me up and throw away the key. No one valued their cyclists more than the Dutch. I learned that the hard way.

After traveling for close to an hour, I drove into the gates of the five-star resort, set in a large, lush estate. Thus far, the venue delivered what it had promised, and more. Visually, anyway. Double volume, glass dome, leisure rooms, plush accommodations, an eighteen-hole golf course, tennis and squash courts, and a river adjacent, provided more than enough to occupy the outdoor enthusiasts, myself included.

Our guests would arrive around noon, so I met with the concierge and went through a few last-minute details. The problem with being a billionaire, as condescending and trivial as that sounded to most, was the glut of ass kissers I encountered on a daily basis. The fact that my face appeared often on the cover of financial magazines didn’t assist in my feeble attempts at anonymity. It was a necessary evil that